Books and Brimstone
by The Girl Prince
Summary: Post apocalypse, Aziraphale and Crowley try to get on with their lives. This would be a lot easier if certain unhelpful immortals would stop interfering... CrowleyxAziraphale, but mild. Reposted from old account.
1. Chapter 1

PLEASE NOTE: The original text for Books & Brimstone was published first at my other FF account, Ninja Fangirl. I've fixed up a bunch of my mistakes and am reposting it here. I hope you all enjoy it! Remember, this is oooooooold writing, except for the Epilogue, so it's allowed to be craptastic.

DISCLAIMER AND WARNING: The characters Hastur, Crowley, and Aziraphale, as well as the basic plot ideas and setting, belong to the almighty genius that is Terry Pratchett.

Jezebel is supposed to be a darling little Mary-Sue. It makes her far easier to hate. Her creation involved a very drunk succubus, a dare, a bet, and a large jar of marshmallow cream. Not a pretty sight.

Oh, and this may be mild, but it is slashy. If you don't like it, darling, I have no idea why you clicked on the link. 3

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One minute she was smelling brimstone, and the next the faintly lemony scent of floor wax. Jezebel stood up slowly, taking in the neatly marble-tiled foyer of which she was the sole occupant. Several large plastic trees flanked two horribly uncomfortable looking plaid benches against one wall. Through a window in the opposite wall she could see a bored looking receptionist filing her ruby red nails and snapping her chewing gum noisily. The only other noise was the faint, tinny sound of a far of speaker playing a soft-rock(1) version of Elvis Presley's "Heartbreak Hotel". It was all quite horrible and unpleasant. Jezebel felt right at home.

The sound of footsteps approaching her from behind caused her to swing around, preparing to rend the person's head from their shoulders should they be a threat. Instead of a possible threat, her eyes fell on a small, pudgy, balding man in a tweed suit, who was hurrying towards her across the expanse of marble. His round little face was worried and he occasionally mopped the sweat from his brow with a red tartan handkerchief.

"Dishonorable Mistress!" The little man panted as he got close enough to stop an catch his breath. "I'm sorry, Dishonorable Mistress, but we weren't expecting thee for a few days yet and we don't have thy rooms ready yet-"

She cut off his words with an imperious wave of her hand. "Stop blathering, fool. So I felt like coming early, so what? Is it my fault that you are incompetent, as well as being an obvious idiot?" The man started to squeak an apology, then stopped himself after a potent glare was pointed in his direction. "Now, take me to my rooms. I don't care what sort of state they're in, I need a bath. I smell like brimstone and damned souls."

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One of the many advantages of Earth over Hell would be the existence of the Hydro Jet Bath. Or baths in general. After spending a few centuries baking your skin to a crisp in the Infernal Regions (what with dry heat and all) a demon really could use an exfoliation. She leaned back, toweling her hair off to the strains of a Metallica guitar riff. Another thing Earth was good for. Heavy Metal rock music. Sure, Hell had certainly had a hand in it's creation, but no one could jam like humans. It probably had something to do with having souls, or some rot like that. The blaring tones that echoed from her state-of-the-art speaker system rattled the panes of glass in the windows and sent ripples flowing across the glass of 1948 Sauvignon that stood on her bathroom counter.

Clad in a red silk camisole and matching silk sleep pants Jezebel, only daughter(2) and heir of Hastur, duke of Hell, inspected her appearance in the huge bathroom mirror. Her hair was dark, thick, and curly, but never tangled or frizzed. Her skin was peerless white, almost vampiricly pale, her lips full, sensuous, and dark, her eyes the deep rusty red of dried blood and ringed by think dark eyelashes. She sighed happily. She was beautiful and she knew it. One did not become a Succubus First Class by looking like a mortal's ass. Daddy had been so proud... Daddy was an old fool, but there you go. C'est la vie, as the human saying went.

Jezebel smiled a smile that would have made the fake plants in the foyer wilt. She wasn't in the human world for vacation. She was here for _revenge_. Oh, this was going to be fun. The hollow chuckle that echoed through the bathroom would give a grown man nightmares for weeks. The fact that she choked on a sip of the sauvignon and gave herself the hiccups would have increased those nightmares to a span of years.

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The dusty little sign in the window read 'Open', belying the apparent lack of light inside and emptiness of the store front. This was an unusual sight, seeing as how most shops in the Soho district closed well before eight o'clock on a Sunday night. The tall man in sunglasses pushed the door open, poking his head inside and called "Knock, knock". Somewhere further inside the little shop a bell jingled cheerfully. Crowley stepped through the doorway, closing the door behind himself. He leaned his umbrella against the base of an unhandily placed coat stand(3) and draped his black coat over one of the pegs. Tucking his hands into his pockets, the demon ambled between the over-loaded shelves and into the small back room of the shop.

As he expected, he found the shop's proprietor bent over a dusty old volume with his spine bent in such a position that would make a chiropractor crack his knuckles in anticipation. The book wasn't the only thing in the room that was gathering dust. The piles of books that stood all over the floor were dusty. The cheap computer that stood in one corner looked as if it hadn't been turned on in weeks. The mug of stone cold tea that stood on the desk next to the book had a fine film of dust floating on it's surface. Even the proprietor was dusty.

"Good book?" Crowley asked casually, leaning his hip on the edge of the desk. A grunt rose from the reader. A long pause stretched out for a good minute and a half before the demon broke it. "By the by, angel," He asked, all innocence. "How long has it been since someone dusted you?"

Aziraphale jolted into awareness, uncomprehending eyes falling on his friend's sunglass-clad face. "Eh?" he asked intelligently. His face slowly took on an expression of dawning comprehension. "Oh, hullo Crowley. When did you get here?" He asked, stretching and popping several joints in his back that will remain unmentioned. He carefully marked his place in the ancient tome, closing the cover and sneezing at the cloud of dust that rose from it's yellow pages.

"About ten minutes ago, actually." The demon fanned the dust away from his face distastefully. "You do know that the cream in your tea is attempting to evolve into a higher life form, don't you?"

Aziraphale jumped, looking suspiciously(4) into the mug. "No it isn't." He said sulkily. "It's just a bit green and fuzzy, that's all." He stood stiffly, picking the vessel up with the delicacy that most people reserve for handling venomous reptiles. He limped into the adjoining kitchenette, scraping the tea into the dustbin and dropping the mug into the sink. He walked back to the doorway, leaning on it. "So, what are you doing here? The world isn't about to end again is it?"

Crowley took on the appearance of one who has been deeply wounded. "Would you believe me if I said that I simply wanted to treat an old friend to dinner?" He asked, poutily inspecting an ancient and rusty fountain pen that he had found lying under a pile of papers.

The Angel smiled wryly, "No, my dear boy, I wouldn't." He said in exasperated tones. "Let me shower and change first. I'm all coated in dust..."

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Jezebel leaned across the small wooden podium that protected the concierge from personal space invasion by disgruntled guests. The succubus was far from disgruntled, but she was definitely invading his space. The middle aged man didn't exactly mind this invasion, but he leaned away from her anyway. This gave him a better view of the three and a half inches of cleavage that peeked up above the low-slung collar of her black mini-dress. "Reservation for one, under 'Wormwood'." She purred. "Jezebel Wormwood."

The man stood for a second, staring at that inviting cleavage, before the power of thought was transferred back to his brain. He shuffled through his book of reservations.

"I'm sorry miss--uhm, we don't seem to have a reservation for..."

Jezebel pouted at the hapless concierge, who broke out into a cold sweat. "I'm sure that someone who is obviously as _important_ as you are," The man preened. "...Can a measly little table for one, for my only lonely." She crooned, shifting her weight so that her hip moved upwards. Everyone passing behind her was treated to a taunting view of her long pale thigh. She peered a the man through her eyelashes, running her teeth over her lower lip. She had him, hook, line and dropper, or something. It was a human saying. It meant that, if she wanted to, she could make him pay for her meal, all the time making it look like it was his idea. She was quite good at what she did.

The man came closer, eyes glancing around furtively. In a conspiratorial whisper he said, "Look, I don't do this for everyone but I think I can get you a table in the back." He gestured and an eager young waiter appeared. After a murmured conversation and an appreciative glance from the waiter Jezebel was lead between the maze of tables, waiters carrying trays and diner's legs. Her ankle-strapped black three inch heels clicked as she walked down the tile. (She barely succeeded in not breaking her ankle. How did mortals walk in those things?) She was deposited at a small table with her back to the wall and a great view of all of the occupants of the large room. She settled back, glanced at the wine list, and promptly ordered the most expensive wine in the house. She was relaxing tonight, a little celebration before the real fun began. Little did she know that her quarry was about to tumble right into her scantily clad lap.

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Alfred the valet stood up quickly, a stiff attention as the vintage black Bentley pulled up in front of him. A tall man in dark sunglasses (At night? Who did he think he was?) stepped from the driver's side, going round to the passenger door to help his companion out of the car. Alfred was bemused to see, however, that the man's companion was not a skinny woman in a slinky black dress, but a blonde man in a white turtleneck sweater with exquisitely manicured nails. The guy in shades helped the blonde up over the curb, and handed Alfred the parking fee before disappearing inside with the sweater-clad man glued to his side. Alfred shook his head, letting out a slow whistle of amazement. Times were a-changing.

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The concierge was shuffling papers on his little podium in a very businesslike manner, and he didn't even glance up as Crowley and Aziraphale approached. He didn't seem to notice, either, when the demon rested his hands on the podium. "Ahem." He cleared his throat meaningfully. The concierge ignored him. Crowley silently cursed the man's immortal soul. Of course, someone had gotten a commendation for the invention of the concierge, but Heaven had countered by inventing the busboy. Similar job, less pay, but (oddly) less evil. Yet another example of the great Cosmic game of One-Uppance that went on worldwide.

Finallythe man behind the podium stopped his paper shuffling and looked up, glaring in a reptilian manner at Crowley over the wire rims of his spectacles. He pulled the cap off of a ball-point pen and replaced the cap at the end of the pen for safekeeping, then waited expectantly.

"Crowley, party of two." The demon said in a voice tight with pent up exasperation. Behind him Aziraphale bent to inspect the potted rubber tree that was placed at the end of a table, which held brochures that spoke warmly of the comfort and hospitality this particular restaurant offered.

The bespectacled man took his time looking through the reservation book in front of him. He found the name, put a tidy checkmark by it, and gestured for a waiter to take them to their table.

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Aziraphale jogged to catch up with Crowley and the waiter, following them to a comfortable looking table-for-two with a small white votive candle burning in a jar in the center. The demon seated Aziraphale before sitting down himself, passing the wine list to his companion. Aziraphale looked the list up and down and finally selected a red wine that was described inexplicably as having "a coffee finish with a hint of banana on the nose". He ordered and sent the waiter off again, then rested his elbows on the table, eyes on Crowley's face. The demon seemed to be scanning the faces of those people seated around them. (One couldn't be sure, on account of him still wearing his sunglasses.) He was probably looking for poor innocent souls to corrupt, the scoundrel. That was, however, one thing he admired about the demon; he may not have any sort of honest employment worth mentioning,(5) but he never stopped working. Quite brilliant really. Of course he would never say it to Crowley's face, he did have his image to maintain after all...

Suddenly Crowley froze, all of the color draining from his face. If his eyes were visible, they would be the size of saucers.

Aziraphale furrowed his brow worriedly. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Sitting in the table right behind you -No, don't turn around you daft fool!- is one of Hell's top sucubi." The demon murmured lowly, one hand balling itself into a fist.

"What, and she's an assassin or blatant killer or something?"

"Both. But it's worse than that. Far worse."

"How?"

"She's my ex-girlfriend."

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(1) Soft rock was one of the more terrible inventions of a certain A. J. Crowley, and it had already pushed over a million humans to commit terrible acts of cruelty, such as stealing from elderly persons and becoming telemarketers.

(2) Only one demoness in the Underworld would ever sleep with him, and she _still_ thinks it was a mistake.

(3) This is one of the many tactics employed by the owner of the shop to dissuade people from purchasing any of his books. The theory behind it is that if the coat rack is far enough out of the way people will feel awkward using it. They will, thus, be forced to carry their coats with them, quite an uncomfortable predicament, and will leave more quickly because of it.

(4) He has had sentient forms come into existence in long forgotten mugs of cocoa, coffee, and tea. One woke him once by asking him quite rudely to stop snoring "in such a bloody loud manner, seein' as how some people were tryin' to sleep themselfs." This was quite traumatic. Aziraphale squashed the mould-thing with one of his shoes

(5) He had once been gainfully employed as a hamburger flipper at one of the first Burger Lord establishments in London, but that didn't last long as customers kept finding "questionable" objects in their food.

(6) A fish that is cured in brine and left outside for a long time. It's considered a delicacy in Norway. Norwegians eat it on Christmas and every other day of the year. I'm perfectly serious. (Look below for the subject of this not-so-footnote.)

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Please R&R as soon as I have all the chapters up! I will reward you with cookies and leutafisk.(6)


	2. Chapter 2

PLEASE NOTE: The original text for Books & Brimstone was published first at my other FF account, Ninja Fangirl. I've fixed up a bunch of my mistakes and am reposting it here. I hope you all enjoy it! Remember, this is oooooooold writing, except for the Epilogue, so it's allowed to be craptastic.

DISCLAIMER AND WARNING: The characters Hastur, Crowley, and Aziraphale, as well as the basic plot ideas and setting, belong to the almighty genius that is Terry Pratchett.

This has mild slash, don't be a hater, yadda yadda yadda...

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It was the last thing Jezebel had been expecting. Here she was, innocently sipping her overpriced beverage and driving almost(1) every male object within a half mile radius wild by crossing and uncrossing her legs at various intervals, when who should appear? That slippery bastard Crawly, that's who! She watched as the demon was led to a nearby table. She watched as he pulled out a chair for his companion, an effeminate man dressed in a white sweater and pair of beige slacks of a sort that had gone out of style fifty years ago. She watched as Crawly sat down opposite the poof, and as he began looking around. Their eyes met. Crawly paled. Jezebel smiled and waved jauntily. She stood, tugged at the hem of her dress to make sure it wasn't bunching unpleasantly anywhere, picked up her wine glass and made her way over to the table occupied by the demon and the angel.

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"Bless it!" Crowley growled in panic. "She's coming over here! What should I do?"

"Act like your usual suave and charming self, and you should be fine."

"This is no time to be sarcastic, Aziraphale! I could be-" The violently whispered conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the scantily clad female in question. She pulled over a chair from a nearby table (the original occupant had left to use the restroom), and sat down fluidly.

"_Crawly_," she purred. "This _is_ a pleasant surprise! I'm not up top for a full day and I've already found an old friend! Darling, how _have_ you been?

Aziraphale stared distastefully at the Succubus. Her behavior (and fashion sense) was nothing short of appalling! Just who did she think she was? He waited impatiently for Crowley to tell her off. What the demon actually did was more than slightly less heroic.

"Erm, hullo Jez." The demon said awkwardly. "I'm terrible, as usual. How has your father been doing these days?"

She giggled shamelessly, "Oh, he's the same as always. Pretty much unchanged other than an _inexplicable_ fear of talking on the telephone." This, oddly, caused her to giggled even harder.

Crowley chuckled weakly along with her. "Oh, heh heh, really?"

"Yes, yes." She waved the topic off as it bored her. "Crawly, dear, where are your manners?" She asked in a sickly-sweet reproachful tone. "You haven't yet introduced me to your friend, you big silly head."

_Yich_, thought Aziraphale.

"Heh heh, er, sorry. I guess I kind of... Forgot." He finished lamely. Truth be told, he hadn't introduced them because he wanted her to leave as quickly as possible. "This is a, erm, _business associate_ of mine. Mr. Fell, allow me to introduce you to Jezebel... Jezebel..." He searched wildly for her current surname.

"Wormwood, darling." She said sweetly, batting her eyelashes at the blonde man. He was unaffected. _That's it. He has to be gay._ She thought as she smiled plastically at him.

Aziraphale was distracted. _Business associate_?!?!?! Why he ought to- no, no he technically was merely that. Crowley's business associate. That didn't stop it from feeling terribly impersonal. "Wonderful to meet you, Ms. Wormwood."

He said stiffly. Wormwood. How original.

Jezebel giggled again. "Please, Mr. Fell, call me Jezebel." And with that she lost interest in the angel, turning her slit pupils back onto Crawly. "So what are you handsome gents doing here so late at night?" She asked, leaning forwards and resting a hand on the Tempter's arm.

"We _were_ having dinner." Aziraphale said pointedly, leaning around the succubus.

"Oh, really? I must seem _so_ rude then, barging in like this..." She moved slightly, casually bumping her 65 pound-a-glass(2) wine directly onto Aziraphale's vintage white sweater. "Oh dear, how clumsy of me! What a pity, now you'll have to go home and change. How sad!"

Aziraphale stood up, his back very stiff and his nostrils very white. "It's no problem. I was about to leave anyway. It's terribly late. Must get home. Have a nice evening. Good night." He said this all in an unpleasantly robotic voice. Then he turned and didn't so much storm as walk away very quickly. He was momentarily stopped in a futile effort to pull his way through a push door. Finally he pushed his way through the glass door, disappearing out into the darkness.

Jezebel attempted to look innocent. "Was it something I said?" She asked with a great show of shock.

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Aziraphale took a taxi home, walking dazedly into his shop. He cleared the stain away with a wave of his hand and then collapsed in a not-very-graceful manner into the couch in his back room. Suddenly the large bubble of anger that had been building inside of him burst. He grabbed an unfortunate paisley throw cushion and hurled it with all his might in the restaurants general direction. The pillow flew a few feet and then landed with a small 'piff' sound on the floor. Needless to say, this did not improve his temper much. "Screw Crowley!" He screamed at no one in particular.

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Several blocks away Crowley sneezed. He swerved to miss the truck that was inexplicably coming head on at him and turned on the windshield wipers to remove the water dumped on his car by a very violent and localized thundershower. He hummed in an unconcerned manner, popping a tape labeled "The Best of Pink Floyd" into his cassette player. Soon, familiar music filled the car:

_Steve walks warily down the street_

_With his brim pulled way down low_

_Ain't no sound but the sound of his feet_

_Machine guns ready to go..._

Crowley sang along with the chorus, "Another one bites the dust"(3) as he casually swerved to avoid an ornamental plum tree that suddenly decided it wanted to grow in the middle of the road.

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Of course, as a demon Crowley didn't _need_ to sleep, but he liked to. Therefore it was much to his annoyance when his bedroom curtains were flung wide, allowing the unpleasantly bright and cheerful morning sunlight to poke it's head in and say hello. He groaned and rolled over, covering his head with his specially designed Swedish orthopedic pillow. In response to this all of his blankets flew off the bed leaving him shivering in the less than warm air. If that wasn't enough to ruin his sleep, a familiar and recently-back-in-his-life-but-not-really-welcome voice spoke somewhere close to his bed.

"Oh dear, Crawly. You still sleep without clothes, I see. Are you cold or is that how you usually look now?" The voice giggled unpleasantly.

Crowley moaned. "Go- er, someone. What the He- erm, Winchester are you doing in my room? Moreover, what are you doing in my life?"

Jezebel looked hurt, plopping her mini-skirt clad rear onto the edge of his bed. "Now now, that's no way to talk. I'm just here trying to make our relationship as it was before fate cruelly intervened-"

"If I remember correctly," The demon interrupted distastefully. "You dumped me in favor of that other succubus what's-his-name... Er, Leonardo Devinci? Besides, I don't remember you ever waking me up at such an unGo- er, someone-ly hour. Get your arse off my bed."

"Dicaprio." She sighed dramatically. "And it isn't that early. It's nine in the morning." She paused, searching for her train of thought and catching up with it again. "Oh Crawly, why can't we just let by-gones be by-gones?" One of her ruby-taloned hands found it's way onto Crowley's bare hip. "I just can't stop think about you." She said tearfully.

"Well you're going to have to try." He informed her, sitting up, dislodging the hand, and wishing himself into a designer suit. "Because I happen to have someone else on my mind."

The color drained from the succubus' face. "You- You flaming homo!"(4) She screamed at him. She grabbed the expensive Swedish pillow and threw it at him as Crowley stood up and started to walk off. He ducked without turning around. "I'll bet it's that poofty, fashion challenged 'business associate' of yours, isn't it?!?!"

Crowley stopped midstride and turned to face her. "First of all I am bi, equal opportunities and all that rot. Second of all, yes, it is my poofty, fashion challenged business associate. Thank you for asking. Good bye and have a nice life."

"Oh," Snarled the Succubus, forgetting to look beautiful. "You are _so_ going to regret this!" She disappeared in an acrid red cloud of smoke.

"I'm _so_ sure." Crowley told the empty air. He then made a beeline for his well-stocked liquor cabinet. He _really_ needed a drink.

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A few hours later the phone rang in a little known Soho bookstore. Aziraphale waited a couple of rings before answering. "Hello, this is Fell's Books," He droned. "If you want to place a hold on a book you will have to call back during busi-"

"Damnit angel, it's me!" Came the voice at the other end of the line. "When are you going to get caller ID like the rest of the world?"

"Where would I put it, pray tell?" The angel asked icily. "I have a _normal_ phone, unlike some people. All it has on the front is the wheely, turny thing. Anyway, are you calling to lecture me on my technology and lack thereof, or are you calling to apologize?"

"'Wheely turny thing'?" The voice at the other end of the line sounded dumbstruck, but quickly snapped out of it. "Besides, what do I have to apologize for?"

"Well, last night for example." The angel's voice was cold enough to cause the next ice age.

"I didn't have anything to do with it! I didn't _make_ her knock wine all over you."

"Well, you could have told her off or something, but no! Instead you were all 'oh yes Jez' and 'anything you say Jez'. It was shameful!"

"Angel, if I didn't know you any better I'd say you were jealous." The demon sounded annoyingly smug.

Aziraphale slammed the receiver back into it's cradle. Jealous? How could he be jealous? The suggestion was utterly ridiculous. Angels didn't get jealous. Envy was a cardinal sin.

Besides, how could Crowley know? The moment that... woman appeared all of his attention had gone down her top. Hellish hussy.

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Three calls later and Aziraphale answered the phone again. "Honestly, one would think you were desperate or something." He said in his best aloof tones.

Mary Smith (probably not her real name), the cheerful voiced English-as-a-second-language telemarketer(5) working with AT&T, paused. "Queue?" she asked after a second.

"Sorry dear, wrong person. Have a pleasant and productive day." Aziraphale hung up. Five seconds later the phone rang again. "Look, I'm sorry my dear, I don't need any Ah Toy eel Toy!" He said into the receiver, kind but firm of tone.

"Aziraphale you bastard, I've been trying to call you for the past twenty minutes. Why didn't you answer the phone?"

"Honestly, one would think you were desperate or something." The angel replied, feeling idiotic. The good comeback didn't seem as potent the second time he said it.

"Well, I am. Get over it. Look, can you make it down to the park in fifteen minutes? I want to app... App... say I'm sorry." The spoke the last part with much displeasure, almost as though it pained him.

Aziraphale smiled triumphantly. "Oh, I suppose I can make it." He said.

"Good. And do me a favor, angel?"

"Yes?"

"Wipe that smug grin off of your face before you get there." Crowley hung up.

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The ducks gathered eagerly around the feet of the tweed-clad blonde man, snapping at the stale bread crusts he scattered in their midst. Aziraphale broke up a fight between a pair of ganders and ripped the disputed bread in half, giving a piece to each duck, all the while lecturing them on propriety and the necessity of verbal conflict resolution.

A hand on his shoulder distracted the angel from his benevolent overseeing of the peaceful conversation between avians. Aziraphale spun around to be confronted by a grinning demon. "I come bearing gifts." He said, presenting the angel with a greasy white paper sack. "You're five minutes early."

"I didn't have anything else to do." He said dismissively, blushing never the less. "Hmm, éclairs. So having given up on everything else you've fallen back on trying to tempt me into gluttony, have you?" Aziraphale accepted the bag with a prim smile. "My dear boy, you are going to have to try harder than that. Ooooh! Chocolate filling!"

"One does what one must." Crowley said, settling down on the bench beside his friend, watching as the angel tore one of the pastries into politely bite-sized pieces and popped them into his mouth with poorly-disguised relish. The demon cleared his throat after a few minutes of silence, broken only by the sound of debating reasonably over the éclair crumbs that Aziraphale threw to them. "Well, now that we're face to face I'd like to apologize properly. I'm really sorry for what ever I did to get to angry with me."

Aziraphale paused mid-chew. "'What ever you did to get me angry with you'? I thought it was obvious. Either that or you are so terribly dense that even the simplest concepts fail to drill their way into your brain!" He put the bag down on the bench, stood up, and stalked off down the path.

Crowley jogged to catch up with the incensed angel. "I knew it! You _are_ jealous!"

"My dear boy, you are delusional. I am no such th-" He was interrupted by being kissed both passionately and skillfully by a certain dark-haired demon.

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Passersby were treated to the view of a demon kissing an angel, who wasn't _really _fighting back. They also saw a large brown gander paddling off towards the island in the middle of the lake, a white paper sack full of éclairs clamped tightly in his beak.

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"Crowley, why did you kiss me like that?"

"Because you were lying, and, as an angel, I thought you'd appreciate being stopped before you sinned."

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(1) Old Mister Archie Neils was saved from this, owing entirely to the fact that he is dumb, deaf, and blind.

(2) For Yanks like me, this is approximately US$115.

(3) Please note that this isn't actually Pink Floyd. It's Queen, as are all cassettes that stay in Crowley's car for over a fortnight.

(4) Heaven and Hell aren't precisely sure as to who created homosexuality, so they both condemn it equally. In truth, it is human nature for some to be homosexual, and so this argument was moot from it's conception.

(5) Telemarketers are a purely Hellish invention. (Ironically) Heaven countered by creating caller ID.

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	3. Chapter 3

PLEASE NOTE: The original text for Books & Brimstone was published first at my other FF account, Ninja Fangirl. I've fixed up a bunch of my mistakes and am reposting it here. I hope you all enjoy it! Remember, this is all oooooooold writing, except for the Epilogue, so it's allowed to be craptastic.

DISCLAIMER AND WARNING: The characters Hastur, Crowley, and Aziraphale, as well as the basic plot ideas and setting, belong to the almighty genius that is Terry Pratchett.

A wee bit slashy, and some semi-foul language. You know the drill.

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Hell's top succubus ambled casually between the trees of a certain duck-infested park. Actually, it was more like 'behind' the trees, but she refused to think of it that way. She also refused to think of what she was doing as 'stalking', _per se_. It was occupational espionage. Besides, Crawley deserved it. How could he turn down such a tasty morsel such as herself? So now she was taking a crooked course through the park, a pair of cat-eye sunglasses and a small beetle-like dog at the end of a rhinestone studded leash by way of disguise. She bought a pistachio nut ice cream and casually caused a major traffic accident as she stood behind a handsome elm tree, licking it. She saw Crawley sneak up behind a blond man who was feeding the ducks. She saw him tap the blonde on the shoulder. As the man turned she could tell that he was... That same poof from last night? It was! She glared at the two men as _her_ Crawley gave the other a paper bag. The poof started eating something from the bag, but Crawley said something that really seemed to irritate him. She smiled in a decidedly reptilian fashion as the blond man (who she could now see was wearing a horrible tweed suit) stormed off. Her smile faded slightly as the demon jogged to catch up, then it faded altogether as he grabbed the blonde roughly by the shoulders and-- Sick! That was disgusting! She stared. They were kissing! She continued staring. That was so gross! The ice cream slid quietly off of the cone and was promptly scarfed by the beetle-like dog. How nasty! Her eyes were glued to the pair as green sticky goo dribbled, unnoticed, down her hand.

--------------------

Crowley drew away slowly, smiling in a singularly self-satisfied manner. Aziraphale stood, eyes wide, face frozen. The demon reached out and tousled the blond head in front of him.

"Don't forget to breathe, angel." He smirked, tucking his hands into his pockets and ambling off towards his conveniently parked Benz.

Aziraphale blinked at the retreating demon's back. "Crowley!" The back stopped. "Why did you kiss me like that?"

Crowley grinned over his shoulder. "Because you were lying and, as an angel, I thought you'd appreciate being stopped before you sinned."

The angel stood, looking for all the world like a bemused blond heron. Rightfully he should be very angry, but his brain was too busy being shocked and couldn't handle both functions at once. He sighed and turned, walking contemplatively back towards his shop. He didn't need to hurry; he'd only gone on tea break two hours ago.

--------------------

As a conditioned reflex to avoid having to part with one of his precious books, Aziraphale would most always check to make sure no one was waiting in front of his shop before turning the corner and going through the front door. If there _was_ someone there, the angel would make a quick about-face and seek out a small, comfortable cafe in which to wait until the prospective book-kidnapper got tired of waiting and went home to soak their feet in a bucket of hot water. This is what Aziraphale did when he had all of his wits about him. Of course, the side-tracked angel did _not_ have all of his wits about him, and so he didn't notice the tall, auburn haired man who was standing in front of the tiny store until he ran headlong into him.

"Oh, pardon me my dear." He chirped, squinting up at the muscular roadblock.

"No' at all, Ladd- _Aziraphale_?" The voice was a familiar one, deep and decidedly welsh in accent.

The blond stared upwards, as comprehension slowly dawned on his face. "G-Gabriel?" He croaked, the word catching in his throat. Suddenly, he was all smiles. "Gabriel you dear, dear boy! What _are_ you doing here?"

The other angel beamed back. "Och, laddie. Ye had me worried fer a secon' there. Ah though' ye werena glad teh see me!" Gabriel leaned down and embraced his friend, then gestured towards the locked door of the shop. "Ah dunna mean teh push, bu' Ah've been standin' out' here fer the pas' hour an' a haye, an' Ah woul' grea'ly appreciate a warm cup o' sumthin'." (1)

"Yes, yes. Right away. Come on in and I'll make you a nice hot cup of cocoa." Aziraphale unlocked the door and followed the other angel inside. "Sit down and rest a bit." He smiled, before bustling off into the kitchen.

Gabriel sat gingerly down on the ancient couch, wincing at the lumpy cushions and averting his eyes from the loud paisley pattern. A couple thousand years of dwelling among mortals and Aziraphale's fashion sense was still several decades behind the times.

A clatter of china alerted him to the blond angel's return from the kitchen. "You like the couch?" Aziraphale asked, sitting down elegantly next to him. (An interesting action for a man dressed in an unpleasant tweed suit.) "It's amazing what one can get for a pound at a thrift store. I can't believe anyone would ever give it away. I think it may be pre-World War II vintage." He fondly stroked the angular and knobby arm of the sofa.

Gabriel picked up the steaming mug in front of him, noticing with some amusement the pattern of large eyed children in pastel colored patched clothes that held hands around the sides of the vessel. He took a sip and made a small face. It was terribly sweet. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Aziraphale was enjoying his immensely. _That_ was something new, as was the tint of pink that colored his friend's cheeks. Not unpleasant, just... Different.

"Ah suppose yer wonderin' what Ah'm doin' down here." The tall angel sighed at last.

Aziraphale looked up, eyes betraying the curiosity that his bland tones hid. "I must admit, the thought did cross my mind."

"Ah'm here teh bring yeh home-- back teh heaven tha' is." He looked the smaller immortal frankly in the eyes. "If yeh'll coome, o' course."

The bookseller gazed into the murky depths of his mug, swirling it in a contemplative manner. His shoulders hunched under the tweed, his face took on an exceedingly thoughtful expression.

"Ah'll tell ye what, laddie," Gabriel said sympathetically after a moment's pause. "Ah'll give ye a week teh decide. Ah've got a few Divine Messages teh deliver for the Metatron right here in London." He stood up and set his almost untouched cocoa mug on the coffee table. "If yeh need me, Ah'm stayin' at the King James B & B (2). Here're the directions an' phone number." A scrap of paper appeared in his hand and he set is beside the mug. "Ah'll see ye aroon'." He told Aziraphale, and made his way back between the shelves and out the front door.

Aziraphale sighed gustily. Did everyone think it was their civic duty to make his life more complicated than it needed to be?

--------------------

Aziraphale had several talents, many of them notable, some of them useless. One of these talents (you pick which category it fits under) is the ability to sit perfectly still for prolonged periods of time; this skill he put to use promptly after Gabriel left his bookshop. He sat still as the afternoon faded into evening. He stared into the distance as evening turned into night. His body did not move as night shifted to morning. In fact, if a driver on the road outside the shop front hadn't blared his horn at a jaywalker, Aziraphale would probably have continued to imitate a statue until morning faded into afternoon-into-evening-into-night, all over again. As it was, he sat up quickly and blinked blearily into the early morning sunlight. He stood stiffly, setting the empty mug which he still held in his hand on the coffee table. The angel went to change his clothes. When he returned, his eyes fell to the piece of paper that Gabriel had left him, the one with the address to the B & B. He picked it up, inspecting it carefully before jamming it into his pocket. He strode purposefully to the door and had one arm in the sleeve of his coat and the other about to follow suit (no pun intended), before he realized what he was doing. He finished putting the garment on at a more stately pace and stepped out onto his welcome mat with a certain air of gravity. "I think," He said slowly. "I think I should like to go to Surrey." With that he flipped the sign in his window around so that it read 'BE BACK SOON' and started off down the pavement with a spring in his step.

"Have a nice time." The wizened proprietor of the neighboring antique shop called after him, industriously sweeping at a stubborn bird dropping on the head of the stone lion that guarded his front stoop.

--------------------

Crowley expected Aziraphale to sulk for a while; if not because the angel really was upset, rather because he wanted Crowley to think he was. The demon, however, was surprised when his friend didn't call him, at least to yell at him or to attempt to freeze his ear of with the temperature of his tone. If Crowley had been capable of it he would have started to feel guilty. As it was, he felt increasingly uncomfortable and bad tempered. As the evening turned to night (recognize a pattern?) Crowley spent more and more time watering his houseplants, each of which blossomed beautifully even though it was night time and some of them weren't supposed to blossom at all. If plants had the ability, these would have been holding their breathes. Finally he picked up the phone and started dialing Aziraphale's number, but he stopped himself. He hung up the receiver and went to bed. All of the plants in the house let out a sigh of relief.

The next morning, bright and early(3), Crowley got into his Bentley and drove down to Fell's Books. He pulled up right in front of the dingy emporium, the fire-lane markings peeling back politely to give him room to park. The sign in the window read 'BE BACK SOON'. No surprise there. The store front looked deserted. No surprise there, either. What was surprising was the fact that the door, when the demon tested the knob, was unlocked. He cautiously pushed the door open, poking his head through the portal. Soon the rest of him followed his head into the shop and he walked hesitantly into the shady, book-filled burrow.

"Aziraphale?" He called, poking around the scruffy little kitchen. He looked into the back room, noting the full mug of cocoa and the empty mug beside it. He carried both of these back into the kitchen, reasoning that this was _not_ an undemonic thing to do because he cleaned up after himself all the time and besides, it took one more do-good-y thing to do off of Aziraphale's sugar-coated list. Crowley did wonder at the existence of two mugs, though; according to his calculations, one angel one mug of cocoa. On his way out the door he couldn't keep the unsettled feeling that was growing inside him from leaking onto his face, it solidified in the form of an unpleasant scowl. He locked the shop with a wave of his hand (maybe the angel forgot his keys on the way out and wouldn't be able to get back in), and reached for the handle of his car door.

"Young man!"

Crowley opened the car door. He hadn't considered himself a 'young' since the second century, and he wasn't technically a man.

"You with the sunglasses and the attitude! Yeah, you!"

That was more like it. The demon turned to look at the little old woman. "Yes, ma'am?" He asked coldly, staring impassively at her through his dark lenses.

She was not at all effected by this. "When Mr. Fell gets back from Surrey can you tell him to stop leaving his newspaper on our front stoop? Wilber trips on it when he lets the cat out in the morning, and I've been removing them every day for the past year."

Surrey! Why the He- err, Pensacola, did Aziraphale want to go to Surrey? And here he (Crowley) was, being severely- preoccupied by his (Aziraphale's) absence! The demon turned on his heel and slid into black leather interior of his car. When he found that angel, he would give him such an earful--!

As he drove away, Crowley didn't notice elderly woman calling after him, "Young man? Excuse me, young man? YOUR MOTHER AND YOUR SISTERS, YOU JACKASS!!!" She very avidly flipped him the bird.

--------------------

(1) Uh, Scottish dialect, as written by a non-Scot. Roughly translated in modern English, it reads "No worries, dude. You just freaked me out for a bit, I thought you weren't happy to make contact, man. Not meaning to step on your flip here, but I'm kinda freezing, seeing how I've been standing out here in the cold for a fricken long time. A warm place to crash, and a hot drink would be greatly appreciated."

(2) B & B Bed and Breakfast. Less expensive than a hotel to run and they only provide breakfast, hence the name.

(3) Please note that Crowley's idea of bright and early is around 10 AM, or any time before he has had his coffee.

--------------------

Mmmmm…. Three to go.


	4. Chapter 4

PLEASE NOTE: The original text for Books & Brimstone was published first at my other FF account, Ninja Fangirl. I've fixed up a bunch of my mistakes and am reposting it here. I hope you all enjoy it! Remember, this is oooooooold writing, except for the Epilogue, so it's allowed to be craptastic.

DISCLAIMER AND WARNING: The characters Hastur, Crowley, and Aziraphale, as well as the basic plot ideas and setting, belong to the almighty genius that is Terry Pratchett.

IF YOU'VE THE THIS FAR, YOU KNOW THE DRILL. Mild slash, language, blah blahdy blah...

--------------------

Aziraphale was having more fun than he'd had in a century. As a matter of fact, he hadn't had this much fun since the invention of the bicycle. He bought a gelato (1) from an outdoor vender and window-shopped his way through various markets and bazaars, bright autumn sun shining benevolently down on his blonde head and green and blue tartan sweater vest. The few lingering holiday makers watched him with a mixture of admiration and disbelief. Never before had any of them seen such an apparently gay man with such horrible taste.

The town was idyllic and green with many outdoor markets and smiling citizens. In fact, it was just like the website put forward by the Surrey city counsel advertised. Of course, Aziraphale wouldn't know this, as he never went online. (2) He did, however, find Surrey quite quaint and adorable.

The angel speculatively licked ice cream out of his spoon, eyes off somewhere in the middle distance. To onlookers he appeared to be quite fascinated by the display of late harvest vegetables in a stall, when he was actually quite adamantly considering all that had happened to and around his person in the last few days. They were lovely turnips, though. He nibbled absently on the end of the plastic eating utensil.

"You look sexy when you do that." A low, humor filled voice murmured two inches from his ear.

Aziraphale yelped, simultaneously leaping away and flinging the nearest thing to hand (a half-full paper bowl of gelato) directly into the face of his would-be attacker. This action startled a string of disjointed curses from behind the melting ice cream.

"Shit! Bless it! What the-?! Damn! He- Erm, Michigan!"

"_Crowley_?" He slowly brought his arms down from the defensive fail-and-slap position of a moment before, peering owlishly into the angry, glasses-clad face.

"Who else, angel? Go- er, Santa Claus..."

The angel covered his mouth with one hand, eyes crinkling up around the edges in a peculiar fashion. Small, strangled gasping noises escaped around the hand and his shoulders heaved up and down. To all appearances he was--

"--Angel, are you laughing at me?" Crowley asked, disbelief coloring his voice.

"Y-you have..." The strangled giggles broke in again and the blonde angel had to take down his hand in order to gasp for air, momentarily forgetting that he didn't actually have to breathe. "Oh... Oh my g-goodness..." He chortled, "You h-have ice cream all over your face..." He broke down completely, bent over double with mirth.

"And just whose fault is that, exactly?" The demon asked testily. He sat down on the bench, looking sulky. "I'm glad that my misfortune has benefited _someone_." He added.

Aziraphale stopped laughing, a look of shock and guilt creeping over his features. "Goodness gracious! I'm so sorry, my dear. You wait right here and I'll go get some napkins to clean you off with. Don't move a muscle!"

Crowley sat obediently until the blonde returned, clutching in one hand a wad of paper napkins and in the other a bottle of distilled mountain spring water. He soaked one of the flimsy bits of paper in water and proceeded to delicately dab at the offending pink goo.

The owner of the face on which the goo resided gasped at the touch of the paper. "Angel, that's _cold._" He complained pointedly, catching the ministering hand with his own.

Aziraphale blinked at the unexpected contact, a rosy tint coloring his creamy cheeks. "Crowley?"

"Mmm hmmm?"

"Let go of my hand, please."

"I don't think I want to."

"_I_ want you to."

"Lets put it before parliament and have a vote."

"This is ridiculous!" Aziraphale tugged his hand from the other's grasp, standing up quickly. "Just wish yourself clean, or something." He flicked his hand to encompass the dripping mess.

Crowley sighed, waved his hand vaguely, and the ice cream disappeared.

"What are you doing here anyway?" The angel asked icily.

"Maybe I just decided to come on vacation?"

"I think you followed me."

A small serpentine grin. "Do you want me to have followed you?"

"I-I don't see what that has to do with anything."

"You're blushing angel. It's cute."

Aziraphale hugged his arms to his hideously tartan-clad chest. "I am not and it is not."

Crowley smiled the smile of a crocodile that has spotted a particularly tasty looking toy poodle. A particularly tasty looking toy poodle lying prostrate on a lawn with a bottle of tartar sauce in one paw and a piece of cardboard with "EAT ME" scrawled across it in the other. He moved in for the kill.

For the second time in as many days, Aziraphale, emissary to heaven, angel of God, used book dealer extraordinaire, found himself being kissed without so much as a "by your leave". And for the second time in as many days he discovered that he didn't really mind.

--------------------

Mr. Marvin O. Bagman(3) was on tour. His agent had decided that, after the incident with the English ghost, it would be best if her client left Nebraska to "expand his borders". In fact, he was scheduled to be expanding his borders for the next two and a half years. Mr. Bagman insisted that he had been possessed by the ghost of a very polite, effeminate Englishman. His agent really didn't care what he wanted to call it, whatever it was had happened on live television and was broadcasted into about half a million homes care of the cable network. And so here he was, performing his latest re-worked classic "Jesus Doesn't Care How Much Money You Have" to less than enthralled British viewers.

Marvin O. Bagman sat at the breakfast table in the large chain-hotel where he was staying during his week in London, sawing his way through a particularly well-cooked piece of fat-congealed bacon. Katie Lowell ( Mr. Bagman's agent) hurried up to the linen draped table, a worried expression on her extensively made up face.

"Mr. Bagman," She murmured to her employer, "There's a tall Welsh fellow here who'd like to have a word with you. Should I bring him over, or tell him to screw off?"

"'S probably one of my many adoring fans. Show him over." He patted his luxuriant middle comfortably, untucking the napkin from his collar and wiping his greasy lips with it.

The handsome gentleman who accompanied Ms. Lowell when she returned was hardly what Marvin had been expecting. His usual fans were either middle aged aunts in sweaters and polyester pants, or weird teenagers with acne and high ponytails. The red-haired man gave Marvin's agent a sincere smile, which she nervously returned before making a quick escape. The newcomer pulled up a chair to the table, elegantly seating himself in it.

"Mr. Marvin O. Bagman?" He asked, his welsh brogue curling the edges of his words warmly.

Marvin leaned back in his chair, smiling benevolently at the gentleman. "That's me, pardner." He said, casually throwing a Texas twang into his speech.

"Ah'm really sorry 'bout this."

What? Why was he sorry? So far, the man hadn't done anything to offend anyone. Mr. Bagman opened his mouth to tell him so when-- WHAP!!! A powerful force collided with his face, sending him reeling backwards. The Welsh guy had slapped him full on the face!

"Ah really am sorry. God says ye can write cheesy songs about His son all ye wan', but to leave the Beetles alone." Through watering eyes Mr. Bagman watched as the tall man stood to leave. "Oh, an' don' ferget teh tip the waitress. She's a nice lass."

--------------------

"It was just my luck--"

"Luck of the Devil."

"Hey, at least it's luck." Crowley grinned wickedly. "Anyway, I had just come out of the shop when that little old lady -you know, the one who owns that antique store- came up and said that you'd wandered away muttering something about Surrey." The demon shook his head with a mixture of amazement and amusement, casually sliding his arm along the back of the bench and around behind Aziraphale's shoulders. "Oh, and she wants you to pick up your own newspaper. She's tired of fishing them out of her front display."

"I get the newspaper?'

"Apparently yes." He shivered in his thin coat. A brisk breeze had picked up and was blowing tidings of winter around his ankles and into all of those tender little places that you don't realize you have until they get cold. He may not actually get cold, but his instincts caused his teeth to chatter.

The angel stood up, smiling shyly. "May I tempt you to some dinner?"

"That's my line." Crowley grinned. "You are buying, right?"

"Of _course _I'm buying. I offered the invitation, didn't I?" He pulled a face at the demon, who chuckled in an irritating fashion. "Besides, I owe you one."

"I'll say you do! I was emotionally scarred by that frozen dessert that you threw in my face. I won't be able to look at ice cream for decades!" He offered his arm to the blonde. "Lead on angel."

--------------------

The place that Aziraphale lead Crowley was a little country inn, a cozy, homey place that smelled vaguely of boiled cabbage and used far more gold leaf in its decoration than good taste allowed. It was suspiciously Aziraphalian in nature, and even more suspicious was the "Good Evenin', Mr. Fell" that the young hostess greeted them with. The angel pointedly ignored the eyes boreing into the back of his skull, sitting down at the booth to which he had been lead and gracefully accepting the menu the smiling girl offered him. Finally, when she had scampered off to fetch tall glasses of water with lemon slices and left the two immortals alone, Aziraphale spoke.

"Alright, alright. I admit it. The reason we're here is because I have a room here." Dark eyebrows shot up beyond the frames of black sunglasses, but the angel didn't seem to notice. "But I mean, golly! Not all of us just _wish_ our money into existence."

That threw Crowley for a loop. "What?"

"We don't all just wish our money into--"

"No, not that. Why did you bring up money just then?"

"Because... Well, because guests of the inn get a discount on meals, of course! Why else, pray tell?"

The resounding thump that echoed from the small booth was resultant of a demon methodically pounding his forehead into the hardwood table. "Angel, have I ever told you how dense you can be at times?"

"Maybe it's not that I'm dense, but that I refuse to take part in the silly little games you play." He said airily, waving a hand in a banishing gesture. "Ooooh! Eggplant parmesan!"

The thumping ceased. "'Silly little games'?"

"Yes, you know, like all of this ridiculous flirting and kissing me without asking first."

"Tell me, Aziraphale, if I asked you would you say yes, hmm?"

"...Maybe."

"My point exactly. Better just to dive on in, I say."

Aziraphale opened his mouth to say that, in his opinion, things should probably not be left up to Crowley to decide, but he rethought it and closed his mouth again. There was a short silence and then the conversation was steered onto safer and more mundane topics, like the weather and the reorganization of book titles.

Finally the meal arrived and they ate in silence, interrupted only by the clinking of silverware and the occasional lifting to the lips of lemon-bedecked glasses. The angel paid the check and the pair left the dining room.

"Well... Drive safely." Aziraphale offered awkwardly.

"Already? I thought you would at least invite me up for coffee." Crowley sighed in a disgusted manner.

"Oh. Yes. Coffee. Right. Well, I guess I can figure something out. Come along, then."

The demon followed the retreating tartan up a claustrophobic stairway and down a lamp lit hallway to a door marked with a lopsided number 7. As the door opened, Crowley received the momentary impression that he was drowning in doilies. Every available surface in the room was covered in the lacey things, and the lingering smell of cats made itself known in an underhanded fashion. He closed and discreetly locked the door behind himself, watching with mild amusement as Aziraphale searched the kitchenette (4) for mugs, a kettle, and instant coffee.

"I know I saw them somewhere in here..." His voice was muffled by the cabinet in which his head was currently thrust.

"Angel?"

"What?"

"Shut up and come over here. You're driving me crazy."

Aziraphale straightened and approached slowly, a teaspoon and a jar of Folger's crystals held in front of him like shields.

"I'm not going to eat you." _Yet_, he amended mentally. "Just come over here." He reached out an uncharacteristically gentle hand, pushing a straying strand of dish-water blonde hair out of the angel's wary face. "May I kiss you, Aziraphale?" He asked, voice gentle.

"I-I think you may."

"Good enough for me." Strong arms around angel's body, two soft thumps as a jar and a spoon hit the carpet, tentative hands remove dark glasses, blue eyes meet yellow. A fwump and a creak of ancient bedsprings heralded the landing of an angel borne down by a grinning demon.

"Looks like you've fallen, angel."

--------------------

The ducks at St. James Park were fast asleep, feathers fluffed and bills hidden against the oncoming bite of autumn. The man clad in dark, non-descript clothing sidled down the pavement, seating himself on a bench beneath a large spreading maple, it's red leaves nearly invisible in the dark. The man was soon joined by another, this one wearing a long tan wool coat and a fluffy white scarf against the chill. The second man seated himself by the first, gazing thoughtfully up through the branches at the large, full moon.

"Yankees won the world series. Ah tol' you they would."

"Thou art lucky. Nothing more."

"Pay up."

The dark figure sighed and dug in his pocket to produce a white envelope. "...I could just refuse to give it to thee."

"We both know yeh wont." The man in the wool coat took the envelope, tucking it securely into the inside pocket of his coat. "Ah have a call on the Red Socks(5) for next year."

"It won't ever happen."

"...We'll see. Have a nice year."

--------------------

A horrible little bird was singing outside the lace encrusted window, it's shrill voice piercing through Crowley's sleep infused mind. For a moment he couldn't think of why he was so tired, or why he was so sore, but then... Yes! Oh yes! Memory flooded back, accompanied by a self-satisfied smirk. He rolled over, draping his arm over where the pale, soft skinned flank of his angel should be, dozing peacefully. Should be, but wasn't. He sat up, staring intently at the empty spot beside him. His yellow eyes lifted, searching the room for any evidence of the other being's presence. Everything was gone. The demon swung his bare legs over the side of the bed and something went "crinkle" beneath his rear. He pulled the sheet of paper from under himself, flattening it to see the familiar copperplate handwriting on the inn stationary. It read:

_My dear Crowley,_

_I am going back to Heaven, as He has no use for me down here anymore. It isn't you. I love you. Please don't follow me. I don't think I have the self control to leave if I see you again._

_I don't want to fall,_

_Aziraphale_

The demon sat for a long moment, staring intensely at the paper. Slowly, a tendril of smoke lifted from the sheet, curling gracefully upwards. The stationary shrank, blackening and finally crumbling into gray ash on the floor. Crowley stood decisively, snapping his fingers to summon a coal-black tailored suit. He slid his dark glasses, discarded on the carpet nearby, up the bridge of his nose, finger-combing his hair back from his face.

"'Don't follow me' my ass." He growled, stalking down to his parked Bentley. He turned towards London, and not one cop attempted to stop him, even though he was driving 30 MPH above the speed limit. A good thing, too; spontaneous combustion isn't pretty, or comfortable.

--------------------

(1) Gelato is a truly wonderful type of Italian ice cream. It's really rich and creamy and comes in all sort of great flavors. My personal favorite, and subsequently Aziraphale's, is raspberry. If you ever get the chance, get some. You wont regret it!

(2) The internet was invented by some demon or another. Crowley had nothing to do with it's conception, as he was busy working on the cable television project at the time.

(3) Remember him? Here's a hint for all you cannon fanatics out there: Pages 249- 253. Marvin was too cool a character not to have a cameo.

(4) Hardly a kitchenette at all. It has a cupboard and a microwave.

(5) . Muahahahahahahaha...


	5. Chapter 5

PLEASE NOTE: The original text for Books & Brimstone was published first at my other FF account, Ninja Fangirl. I've fixed up a bunch of my mistakes and am reposting it here. I hope you all enjoy it! Remember, this is all oooooooold writing, except for the Epilogue, so it's allowed to be craptastic.

DISCLAIMER AND WARNING: The characters Hastur, Crowley, and Aziraphale, as well as the basic plot ideas and setting, belong to the almighty genius that is Terry Pratchett.

Guess whaaat? Slash/language. The language is really the bigger factor here, honestly.

--------------------

Clouds were gathering over London, bubbling like an upside-down vat of dirty marshmallow fluff. Long time residents looked out their windows and sighed with relief (1), announcing cheerfully to husbands, wives, cats, or listening houseplants that "it looked like rain".

A yellow taxi pulled up in front of a dingy bookstore in the lower Soho District. The door opened and a slender blonde man got out. He leaned through the open door, and said something along the lines of "-go home and tell your wife. Some roses certainly wouldn't hurt. Keep the change." The last was accompanied by the handing over of a fat bank note. The cabby took the note, gave the odd man a last confused look, and drove away wondering where he should go first; church or the pub.(2)

Aziraphale waved as the taxi screeched around the corner, then stepped up over the curb and to the front door of his shop. He hunted absently through his pockets for his keys, resting the other palm on the door. Much to his surprise the door gave way, opening like an eerie mouth on the dark, musty interior. The angel withdrew his hand from his pocket, warily taking a step inside.

"Hullo?" He called tentatively, reaching for a light switch.

In the back of the shop a flame burst into existence. This flame came from a custom chrome lighter, and as it was brought to the tip of the cigarette, it illuminated the face of it's owner. Jezebel flipped the lighter shut, blowing a billowing cloud of acrid smoke into the air around her head.

Now, some people would like to tell you that there is no such thing as coincidence, but they are also the ones telling you that the world will end in fifteen days time and you should stock up on Spaghetti-O's and bottled water. The funny thing is, while the part about the Spaghetti-O's is a load of tosh, they are right about coincidence. Several things happened simultaneously as Jezebel exhaled. Firstly the door banged shut behind Aziraphale, clipping the backs of his heels painfully(3) and locking when it was closed. Also, a bolt of lightening struck an important power distributor, plunging half of London into darkness and silence.

Aziraphale flipped the light switch up and down a couple of times before he seemed to realize that it wasn't working. He took a quick step back, banging his already sore heels against the closed door. He yelped, hoping on one foot and clutching the opposite bruised extremity with one hand. Jezebel took another long pull from her Peruvian cigarette, a small smirk playing across her heavily made-up features.

"What are you doing here?" The angel barked between gasps of pain.

Jezebel didn't seem to notice. "I find it odd that an unimportant little man like you could ever hold prevalence," She paused, resting a crimson taloned hand on one hip. ", Over me."

"Miss." Aziraphale began severely, putting his foot down and leaning lightly against the counter. "You are breaking and entering!"

"I mean, look at you!" The succubus continued without missing a beat. "What's so special about _you_. No money, no fashion sense, no _brains_... The only thing you've got going for you is that you might actually be cute under those horrendous garments you wear."

"Now wait just a minute!" The angel snapped. "You barge in here, acting like you own the place! You smoke despite the fact that I have several 'No Smoking' signs posted at convenient intervals for clear viewing and sound comprehension. And now," He paused for dramatic emphasis. "You have the gall to say I'm not _intelligent_? Just who do you think you are, anyway?"

That threw the succubus for a loop. She hadn't taken into her calculations the chance that he might not recognize her. I mean, she was _Jezebel_ for anti-Christ's sake!(4) She floundered for a second, before waving the disturbance away with her cigarette smoke. "That doesn't matter. What matters is this; Stay away from Crawley."

Aziraphale gave her his best withering look. "Oh really? And why should I, pray tell?"

She returned his look with a smile so icy it caused frost patterns to form on the front window. She reached out and snatched a leather-bound volume from the counter behind her. (A particularly handsome first-edition St. James bible, to be precise.) "Books. Books books books books books. What are they anyway? A bunch of words on paper. Stories and ideas. It's funny, isn't it, that these things which have inspired so much thought and contention could be so," The corners of the bible began to blacken. "_Vulnerable_." Flames leapt hungrily across the binding, black smoke mingling with the white cigarette smoke above her. The ancient tome, having survived several moves and World Wars, met it's unresisting demise at the hands of Jezebelle. She crumbled the handful of gray ash onto the carpet before reaching around for another one.

One of Aziraphale's fists clenched and unclenched as a second book burst into flame and joined it's brother on the carpet. His nostrils became increasingly white and his mouth became a pinched line.

"I would not do that, if I were you."

"What? Oh, you mean this?" Book number three went up in smoke.

"Yes my dear, that." Aziraphale averted his eyes from the growing mound of ash at the succubus' feet.

Jezebel smiled in what could only be described as a bad attempt at innocence. A forth book (this time a copy of the Burgeuson and Banks "Beaftf of Hell and Beyingf of Heaven") began to blacken at the corners.

"Leave Crawly to me, and I might let your precious books live." She said sweetly, pouring the dead book out of her hand.

"You know, there were only ten copies of that book ever printed." The angel said conversationally. Suddenly all signs of tension were gone from his lean form. Instead a spark had appeared in his eyes, a spark that would have made a God-fearing man run for cover, and a man that didn't fear God promptly wish that he did.

He turned slowly, blue eyes searching the space around him for- Ahah! He reached out and grasped the mop handle(5), drawing it before him. He inspected it. Not _quite_ what he wanted, but it would do fine. Just fine. "You know, love, you can have Crowley. He's an ass. If that was the only thing, I might have let you leave here unscathed." He sighed. "But, you've made this personal."

"What are you going to do, smack me with you're mop?" She giggled unpleasantly. "Oh I'm soooo scared."

Aziraphale smiled. "As a matter of fact, you should be." With a _fwump!_ noise similar to that made by dropping a match onto a gasoline soaked rag, the mop caught flame. A breeze picked up, whipping around the little room like a hurricane, tugging papers off of counters and sending the yellowed pages of books dancing. The window simultaneously imploded and exploded, sending razor-sharp glass shards flying. Jezebelle's blood-colored eyes widened as the man in front of her seemed to change, growing taller, white wings exploding from his shoulders.

"You- You're... You _can't_ be... That's just _wrong_..." The fifth book tumbled from her senseless fingers. She looked from the snowy wings to the flaming mop-handle. "I don't believe it."

Through the maelstrom, a voice like a thunderclap boomed. "Oh, _believe _it."

--------------------

Aziraphale had a several hour head-start on Crowley, and so by the time the dark-haired demon was within sight of London a heavy storm was brewing. He pulled over to the roadside and stepped from the car, lifting his sunglasses to peer at the churning thunderheads that hung like boiling concrete over London. The clouds were not surprising, but the lightening that leapt between them was. As he watched, a swirling cloud that he could have _sworn_ was a tornado reached down a long finger towards the city. It was reaching towards... No it couldn't have been-

"Shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit..." Crowley growled as he leapt back into the Bentley. The tornado was touching down in Soho.

"Angel, what have you _done?_!?!"

--------------------

The entire area around Fell's Books was a disaster zone. After several close calls with tree branches and a downed power line Crowley finally parked and decided to continue on foot, leaving the surrounding trees with a warning about the dark fate of any arboreal curiosity who was _rude_ enough to drop a limb on his car.(6)

As he rounded the last corner and stepped around a fallen dustbin, he got a full view of the center of the damage. Aziraphale's once-tidy store-front was now littered with soggy newspapers, branches, leaves and (in one instance) a size nine and a half sky blue Converse Allstar. The eye of the storm had, in all appearances, settled over the shop. The entire front window was blown out, though Crowley wasn't quite sure as to which direction it had blown, and crystalline shards lay strewn about in no apparent order. The door banged crazily on it's hinges, hanging lopsided like a unpleasantly loose tooth. The apparent lack of life inside sent a shiver down the demon's spine.

Crowley stepped through the door with the same caution Aziraphale had a few hours before.

"Angel?" He called cautiously, taking in the destruction. Books lay strewn about, spines bent awkwardly. In several places the carpet had been scorched, giving off the unpleasant smell of burnt plastic. Papers littered the floor like a rather damp snowfall. Something glimmeringly white caught his eye in the semi-darkness. He walked hesitantly over to it and picked it up. It was a white feather, larger than that of any bird. Even more disturbing was the presence of bloodstains on it's pristine surface. He looked up again, now with more urgency. There were more feathers, leading like a deranged Hansel and Gretel trail into the bowels of the shop. He followed them back into the back room, picking them up as he went. Then his eyes caught the red tartan he had been looking for.

By all appearances, Aziraphale had been trying to make it into his sagging couch, but had only made it half-way before his strength gave out. He lay, half on, half off, blonde hair matted darkly in some places, usually fastidious garments now ripped and stained with blood. Curiously, in one hand he gripped the burnt handle of what looked like a broom.

"Bless it all past Sodom and Gomorrah!" Crowley growled, dropping his feather bouquet and striding across the small room. He scooped Aziraphale up, depositing the angel's limp form onto the couch. He tugged the carbonized stub of the loyal mop from the blonde's unresisting fingers, and then set about pulling the tattered tartan from the pale body. "Dammit, Aziraphale, if you're dead I'll never forgive you!" He informed the unconscious form.

An eyelid flickered. "Haven't you ever learned to check a pulse, my dear boy?" The angel croaked weakly. "Not that I'd have one anyway, mind you. At least wait until I can defend myself before you start undressing me. Honestly..."

Crowley stopped what he was doing (which was untying Aziraphale's sensible brown Oxfords) to stare wonderingly at his friend's face. "You are sure bitchy to someone who was just worry- er, concerned about your life."

"Didn't you get my note? I left it on the pillow... I told you not to come."

The demon pulled his angel's limp body into a bone crushing embrace. "Fuck you." He murmured into the blonde hair.

Aziraphale smiled, awkwardly patting Crowley's shoulder. "Maybe later, love. Meanwhile, could you put me down? I think I have a broken rib."

He set the blonde down as quickly as he had scooped him up, making the angel wince.

"Can I get you something to drink?" He offered carefully, moving to stand up.

A pale hand caught hold of his sleeve, clinging weakly to it.

"Don't go, just... Stay here a while, please."

The demon grinned, taking his seat once more.

"As you wish, angel. I'll stay."

As Aziraphale drifted to sleep, Crowley watched his peaceful face. With an uncharacteristic tenderness, he pulled his coat from his shoulders and spread it over the angel. He would stay, yes. And so would Aziraphale. He would make sure of that.

--------------------

(1) The unseasonably good weather had left them at a loss for things to complain about, which made them grumpy and irritable.

(2) Aziraphale often has this effect on people.

(3) This was not entirely on purpose, but it certainly _wasn't_ a coincidence.

(4) In the little town of Tadfeild, Adam Young sneezed unexpectedly. All of the Them looked up at him in surprise, and Pepper asked "What's wrong, Adam? You getting a cold?" This was, of course, perfectly ridiculous. The anti-Christ can't get colds.

(5) Don't ask me why _Aziraphale_ of all people had a mop. Maybe his neighbors gave it to him as a Christmas present in hope that he might take the hint...

(6) Crowley has the uncommon talent of being able to talk to plants and have them listen in return. It has something to do with his inflection.

--------------------

In case you were wondering about the contents of Aziraphale's shop, yes all of his books were replaced by volumes such as "101 Things a Boy Can Do" and "Blood Dogs of the Skull Sea". However, he was able to sell all of them and had quite alot of fun buying new volumes with which to stock his store.


	6. Epilogue

PLEASE NOTE: The original text for Books & Brimstone was published first at my other FF account, Ninja Fangirl. I've fixed up a bunch of my mistakes and am reposting it here. I hope you all enjoy it! Remember, this is all oooooooold writing, except for the Epilogue, so it's allowed to be craptastic.

DISCLAIMER AND WARNING: The characters Hastur, Crowley, and Aziraphale, as well as the basic plot ideas and setting, belong to the almighty genius that is Terry Pratchett.

For the last time in this series, slash and language warning. Have a nice epilogue.

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The sun shone weakly through the shattered glass that used to be the front window of Fell's Books. Outside, the sounds of strong men moving things about punctuated the semi-silence. The angel Aziraphale blinked slowly, surfacing from the velvety blackness of his subconscious. He ached all over, but he knew that the cuts and contusions that had been spattered liberally over his body were healing. What worried him was the strange heavy sensation on his chest. It felt as though he couldn't properly draw a breath... He started to worry. Perhaps he'd been hurt more seriously than he had originally thought--

Then he looked down.

A large dark-haired man was leaning on his abdomen, fast asleep. His exhaled breaths caused faint whistling sounds to escape his nose, and his sunglasses were pushed askew. Aziraphale contemplated the oddly peaceful face. It was the face of his long-time friend, enemy, rival, ally, tempter, and lover. (1)

As if he sensed the blonde's scrutiny, A. J. Crowley began to stir. His eyes opened, catching and holding Aziraphale in their inscrutable yellow depths. He smiled languidly, showing off flashing white pointed canines that would make a dentist both green with envy and pale with fear.

"'Morning, angel." He slurred, reaching up to re-adjust his vagrant sunglasses.

"Morning, yourself. It's after four. And couldn't you find something else to use as a pillow? I can't exactly breathe." The book store's proprietor attempted a chastising tone, but failed miserably, due in part to the unwilling smile that spread his lips.

Crowley did sit up, but with much deliberation and back popping.

"You want something to drink, now? I'd go for some coffee, if you had any available." He stood and walked over to the closed door that led to Aziraphale's diminutive kitchen.

A sudden realization struck the lounging celestial being.

"Wait, Crowley, don't open that door--"

But it was too late. The door swung open and a dark blur leapt forth, fastening itself to the unsuspecting demon's shirt collar. Crowley yelled a vague profanity, flailing madly at the gigantic black rabbit that was attempting to chew it's way through the buttons at his throat and get at his jugular.

"Aziraphale, what is this thing?"

He looked sheepish.

"That, uh, that would be Jezebel. I think she's an French Lop." (2)

The elephantine laporidae glared murderously through beady red eyes.

--------------------

"Do you think she'll be happy here?"

"Do you actually care?"

"...No."

"There you go."

The two men stood, shoulder to shoulder, watching the retreating black tail of the rabbit that once was the fearsome daughter of Hastur, Duke of Hell, as she lollopped away between the trees. The moon, just past full, shone down on the large park, illuminating the carefully groomed grass with a ghostly light.

"Are you hungry?"

"I am if it's your turn to treat."

"Then lets go."

The angel and the demon exited the park arm in arm. In the darkness, the succubus Jezebel muttered murderous words in the quiet and somewhat limited tongue of rabbits. (3) Revenge. Revenge and green leafy vegetables...

--------------------

"I don't believe thy friend is coming."

Gabriel jerked up from the slouching position in which he had been lounging, as though tugged on by an invisible string.

"An' 'oo said ah was waitin' for anyone?" He asked, rather huffily.

"Ha. Ha. Yes, thou hast a tendency of sitting out in the cold, lacking any sort of company." A light flared, accompanied by a sulfurous scent.

The wind blew lightly fluffing the archangel's red hair, carrying the faint smell of old, very old, books.

--------------------

(1) Mmmmm, cheeeeesy... Like swiss and limberger. How tantalizingly cliche.

(2) (sited from The French Lop is a rabbit that originated from cross-breeding between the English Lop and the Flemish Giant. The average weight of a fully grown French Lop is around ten pounds.

(3) This is exceedingly difficult, seeing as how the rabbit dialect consists of three sounds; grunt (food, sex, mild annoyance), sneeze (food, sex, mild annoyance), and blood-curdling scream (Damnit, he got me!)

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That's all, folks. It's a really short epilogue, but I hope you enjoyed it! Remember, please R&R. Much appreciated!


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